


Sound Barrier

by WanderingStudent



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: I've never written for either of these fandoms before be gentle, Multi, Overwatch!Widowmaker, mangled IDW continuity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:53:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingStudent/pseuds/WanderingStudent
Summary: In which Lena and co. end up adopting a walking, talking fighter jet with four million years of regrets and a penchant for bingewatching.





	1. Ignition

As a bullet narrowly misses her head by centimeters, Lena regrets volunteering for Winston’s latest solo operation.

She bounds down a darkened, disused staircase, firing blindly behind her at her Talon pursuers. Her chronal accelerator’s power level flickers, its blue light dim and sparks flying out from a crack in the white casing – courtesy of a lucky shot from one of the Talon grunts. She doesn’t dare try to use it for fear of any temporal complications – the last time she attempted to use her accelerator whilst it was this damaged she’d nearly fallen back into limbo before Winston managed to stabilise the damned thing.

On reflex, she brings a hand up to her ear to tap her communicator, to get in contact with Winston, with the ORCA, with anyone vaguely friendly in the vicinity. Of course, her communicator isn’t there. Winston hasn’t let anyone out into the field with an earpiece since Talon’s new hacker tapped into their communications and made what should have been a routine mission a brush with death. Lena could do without the memory of having to pull flechette rounds out of Satya’s stomach, _thank you very much._

A shot rings out as Lena rounds a corner, and a bullet clips her right thigh. She bites out a curse, but is silently thankful that the wound is as shallow as it is. Still, she can already feel herself slowing down – every other step sends pain lancing through the wounded thigh. She grits her teeth and pushes on – but she knows she can’t outrun her pursuers now. She needs to find some kind of escape – or somewhere to hide, at least, so she can patch herself up somehow.

She disappears down a narrow corridor, trailing blood behind her. The Talon agents are getting closer now, _closer._ Lena tries to remember the schematics of the bunker that Winston had managed to obtain – but they’d been pitifully incomplete as it was. In the low light, Lena strains her eyes for a door to disappear behind, something she can block and fortify.

As if by divine providence, she comes upon a single door that slides open for her without codes or passwords. She ducks in, and, after failing to find anything to block it, shreds the control panel beside the door with gunfire. If the way the door _clicks_ closed is any indication, she thinks she’s safe for a few precious minutes.

Lena turns around, and struggles to see anything in the low light. What little illumination remains is enough to tell her the room is _massive_ – and from the way her footsteps and short breath echo, largely empty.

This bunker as a whole had been empty, devoid of anything useful. Winston had apparently gotten information from a Talon leak that some kind of advanced Omnic prototype was stored here – and that Talon were coming to steal it for themselves. Lena had been sent in to find out what the prototype was – and destroy it, provided it wasn’t sentient. Considering this bunker had been sealed off for decades, she doubted that any model produced this early was even programmed with the base algorithms to allow self-awareness. In the end, she hadn’t found any kind of Omnic technology, and Talon had burst in just as she’d moved to leave, leaving her running for her life without communications and a damaged accelerator.

She fumbles along the wall for anything resembling a light switch, and when her fingers wrap around what she hopes is some kind of lever, she pulls it down.

Lena shields her eyes for a moment as light fills the room – no, _hangar_ , she realises – and takes a moment to look at her leg. A dark red stain blooms across much of her orange legging, and she experimentally puts a little more weight on her wounded leg. It hurts, obviously – but she can keep going. As far as she can tell, it isn’t bleeding _too_ badly. She can keep going, at least for now.

Lena looks up, into the rest of the hangar, and her breath catches in her throat.

Resting silently in the middle of the hangar, pointed towards what she assumes is an exit, is a perfectly preserved F-22 Raptor. It’s painted a _gorgeous_ blue, and red and white pinstripes trail along the edge of its wings.

Lena thinks it’s one of the most beautiful things she’s ever seen.

(Of course, Amélie takes first place, though.)

She moves closer to the vintage jet to inspect it, but a sharp _bang_ from the door behind her reminds Lena of her current predicament. She looks back at the door, then at the jet, and dares to hope.

* * *

Once inside the jet, Lena quickly runs through what in her opinion passes for a pre-flight check – but would get her immediately kicked out of the RAF if they could see her now. The fuel tanks are full, the engines are hot – even the pilot’s mask has full oxygen. Lena muses that it’s nigh impossible for a craft like this to be in such good shape given that this bunker’s been abandoned for so long.

She looks back at the door on the other side of the hangar, and grimaces as she sees sparks trailing the edge of it – they’re trying to cut through. Lena tugs her goggles off, and pulls the pilot’s helmet and mask on.

It then occurs to her that the hangar doors are still closed. She curses for what must be the hundredth time that night, before an idea occurs to her. Her hands curl around the joystick, index finger resting on the trigger.

She squeezes the trigger, and the cannon fire rattles her teeth in her skull  - whatever calibre the jet’s firing, it’s far too large for a craft this old or small. Whatever the case, it reduces the hangar doors to so much shredded metal, and Lena lets out a breath. She adjusts her leg, and realises the pilot seat is caked in red – the wound must have been deeper than she thought.

On the other side of the hangar, the door bursts open, and the Talon agents stream in. Without hesitation, Lena guns it, the roar of the jet’s afterburners serving as her middle finger to them. Bullets ping harmlessly off the jet’s plating, and as it rockets out of the hangar, towards freedom, Lena begins to laugh, relief finally washing over her.

Once she’s cleared the hangar, soaring into the night sky, Lena decides to see what this thing can _really do._ With any luck, it should just be a little bit slower than what she flew in the RAF and more than enough to outrun the bulky Talon transports. Lena accelerates – and finds her heart in her throat as the jet breaks Mach 1 – Mach 2 – _Mach 3_ – _Mach 4 -_

Lena decelerates, heart hammering and blood thundering. It’s a little faster than what she’s used to, to say the least. Chest heaving, she struggles to slow her heart down, to regain control of herself and the plane.

She settles into the controls quickly enough, but doesn’t let herself relax – she needs to punch it if she’s going to reach Gibraltar before she bleeds out.

And when she gets home, she decides, she’s going to get her leg fixed, kiss Amélie, fall asleep, and then see just what the _hell’s_ going on inside this jet, in that order.

* * *

 As she comes to in the Watchpoint’s medical bay, Lena struggles to knit together blurry memories into something resembling a coherent narrative. She remembers the jet, remembers sighting the Watchpoint on the horizon just as the blood loss causes her vision to blur. She remembers struggling to fly straight as she attempts to open a channel to tell Winston she’s a friendly, but when she tries to think about arriving in the hangar, her memories grind to a halt.

She groans quietly, eyes still closed, but takes solace from the fact that she’s home safe _and_ that Angela’s doped her up enough that her leg feels like it doesn’t exist. She cracks one eye open, and looks around – early morning light shines in from the window to her left, and the medbay seems to be empty, before light snoring from her right draws Lena’s attention.

Head propped up on one hand and hair somehow perfect, Amélie sleeps soundly in the chair next to her. Lena realises she must have arrived very late, given that she’s wearing her nightgown underneath a jacket and sweatpants.

Lena smiles softly, and opens her other eye, sitting up in bed for a better look at her girlfriend. The morning light perfectly illuminates Amélie’s sharp, elegant features, which, for once, aren’t contorted in a sleeping grimace – Lena suddenly realises Amélie must have stayed up with her into the early hours of the morning, leaving her too exhausted to even dream. The thought sends both butterflies and a guilty pang through her stomach.

 _Still,_ Lena reasons, _her good nights are few and far between. I don’t want to wake her._

Amélie shifts slightly in her sleep, and the light now provides a better look at her skin. Her face seems almost patchwork – blotches of pale blue war with perfect alabaster skin, over her left eye, her right cheek, and from her chin down to her collarbone.

Some days, Amélie doesn’t mind it – she holds her head high, dares to wear that ridiculous leotard – and other days she keeps her visor down as much as she can, wearing as much as she can. Lena’s wondered if that’s why the lights are always off each night, wondered if she hasn’t told Amélie how beautiful she is enough.

Enough depressing thoughts, Lena decides. She’s here with Amélie, she’s escaped another brush with death, and for now, that’s all that matters.

Lena suddenly remembers her damaged accelerator, and she looks down at it – its glow is steady, but low, and the illuminated green ring around the edge of the accelerator means Winston’s locked it in maintenance mode until he can repair it. She sighs, glad that she’s still in the here and now at least.

A few minutes later, Angela strides through the medbay, hair in a messy ponytail, fingers dancing over a tablet. She’s so engrossed in her work that she nearly misses the conscious Lena, and nearly falls over herself as she turns back, face lighting up with relief.

“ _Gott im Himmell,_ you gave me a scare…how are you feeling?” Angela asks, smiling tiredly.

“Not too bad, love…little out of it, but otherwise fine. You just up?” Lena replies, as cheery as can be despite a wounded leg and a damaged chronal accelerator.

“ _Ja_ , had to check on you. And to make sure Amélie got some sleep, as well. She was still awake when I left – at two AM.”

Lena smiles, glancing back at her sleeping lover, before turning back to Angela. “When exactly did I get back?”

“Around ten PM,” Angela replies. “To be honest, I’m surprised you even managed to land that jet of yours in the hangar in your condition. You were unconscious when we got the canopy open.”

“Yeah, my memory’s a little patchy,” Lena murmurs, rubbing the back of her neck and frowning. “How’s everyone else?”

“A little on edge, but less so than when you were gone. Ever since we’ve cut communications, things have been…difficult. We have no way of knowing how Mei and Zarya are doing in Dorado, and Winston’s considering sending Genji to check up on them,” Angela murmurs, holding her tablet to her chest, her expression tight.

“I’m sure they’re fine…,” Lena replies, swallowing. “Those two are like…peas in a pod. They’ll get on alright, love.”

Before Angela can reply, Amélie picks that moment to stir from her sleep, grumbling something unintelligible before she opens her eyes, blinking the sleep out of them. As soon as she sees the conscious Lena, her features soften, and a tiny smile plays across her lips.

“Hey, you,” Lena murmurs, offering her best smile as she shifts a little closer to Amélie. As Angela quietly excuses herself, Amélie reaches out silently, placing one hand on Lena’s cheek. Lena leans into the touch, closing her eyes as Amélie brushes her thumb across her skin. “Hope I didn’t worry you,” Lena murmurs, bringing up one hand to cover Amélie’s.

“Worry me, _cherie_?” Amélie offers a dry smile. “You act like you half-crashed an ancient jet into the hangar because you had passed out from blood loss. No, I did not worry at all.”

Lena grimaces, opening her eyes. “Okay, so maybe I deserve that one,” she murmurs, half to herself.

“I…may have worried. But you are here, now, so I do not,” Amélie continues, her smile widening slightly. “But I will need to talk to Winston about letting you take missions with incomplete intelligence,” she murmurs, golden eyes flashing with the slightest hint of danger.

Lena laughs nervously. “Believe me, that’s a conversation I want to have with him too.” She slaps her leg for emphasis – and then instantly regrets it as pain shoots up her thigh. _Guess the painkiller’s starting to wear off._

“Lena – are you –“ Amélie’s cut off by Lena holding up a hand. “M’ fine. Seriously. Just this leg, it’s –“

Winston’s voice comes in over the communications system, interrupting Lena as well.

**_“Lena, are you there? Angela’s told me you’re awake – are you alright?”_ **

“Fine, Winston,” Lena replies, noticing the dark look on Amélie’s face. _No thanks to you,_ it seems to say.

**_“Good to hear. If you’re up for it, I need you down in the hangar – this jet you’ve brought home is a little unusual.”_ **

Amélie looks at her with a look in her eyes. It’s not a pleading look, Amélie never _pleads_ – but she asks Lena, silently, to stay in bed, to recover. Lena gives her an apologetic look, before responding.

“Be there soon,” she replies.

* * *

Shucking on her jacket, leg wrapped up and pumped full of fresh painkiller, Lena makes her way down to the hangar. Idly, she wonders why such a superficial wound is still giving her trouble – usually something like this would be patched up on a moment’s notice, instead of being numbed and bandaged. It occurs to Lena that Talon must have intercepted their latest supply shipment, and she frowns.

It seems that ever since Talon’s new hacker came into play, Overwatch has been on the back foot. No supplies, no communications, missions that achieve nothing – Lena would be lying if she said she doesn’t feel a little apprehensive about the future.

She tries to keep her mind off Talon, and instead thinks of Amélie – who’d left with a curt nod to Angela as she gave Tracer another shot of morphine. Lena muses that she’s either in their room, reading – or nestled away in one of the many vantage points around the Watchpoint, drawing beads on imaginary targets to kill time.

_She seemed a little peeved. I think I need to give her a proper apology. Once this leg heals up, of course – how much meat did that bullet take off?_

Finally, she walks out into the bright expanse of the hangar, noting that it’s mostly empty, save for Winston, who's standing beside the F-22. He’s hooked up a number of monitors and diagnostic equipment to the jet’s internals, and constantly looks between the two as his fingers fly across the keyboards.

She also notices the skit marks stretching in an erratic pattern across the hangar floor, and shudders to think how bad her landing must have been.

“Winston!” She calls out, eager to distract herself. Winston turns, immediately appearing to brighten up as he catches sight of her.

“Good to see you up and about,” he says. “That leg isn’t giving you too much trouble, is it?”

“Nah, it’s nothing. But thanks for asking,” Lena replies, with a grin. “So, what about this jet?”

“I don’t know where to begin,” Winston shrugs, lumbering back over to his diagnostic station. “For starters, Athena’s having a great deal of difficulty ascertaining the state of the jet itself. A great deal of the internals are unfamiliar tech – and certainly nothing like you would find a few decades ago.”

“It certainly felt fast enough,” Lena muses, as she cranes her neck to get a look at one of Winston’s many screens. “Probably for the best, though – otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten back here in time.”

“You’ll hear no argument from me,” Winston replies, frowning. “There’s something else – Athena has been able to discover something – which she thinks may be some form of AI.”

“An AI? On a plane this old?” Lena replies, sceptical.

“I know, it seems…impossible. Still, we shouldn’t rule anything out,” Winston muses, just as Athena chimes in from the diagnostic station.

_“I have been able to ascertain the state of the tentatively titled AI, Winston. It appears to be dormant, forced into hibernation by some kind of programming block.”_

“Can you remove it?” Winston asks.

_“I believe I can. It is a primitive enough piece of programming.”_

“Is that _really_ a good idea?” Lena asks, raising one eyebrow.

“Relax, Lena. I’m sure nothing bad will come of this. It’s definitely not any kind of Omnic we know of,” Winston replies, eyes bright as he turns back to his station, already caught up in the rush of a new discovery.

“I know, but still –“

“Athena, remove the block, please,” Winston calls out, adjusting his glasses.

The hangar promptly falls into chaos as the jet, for lack of a better word, _explodes_ into motion. Both Lena and Winston hurl themselves away, shielding their heads with their arms as the diagnostic station is batted away by – _is that a hand?_ Lena thinks, bemused.

Within moments, the jet is gone – in front of them instead stands a sixteen-foot tall robot, covered in sky-blue armour plating. Its red eyes are narrowed into a quizzical expression, and it seems to have trouble getting its bearings as it staggers around slightly.

“ _Primus above_ , that hurt – must be something in the way of the t-cog…” The robot mumbles to itself, in a voice tinged with slight electronic modulation. It leans against one of the hangar walls and runs its hands over its face, as if it’s recovering from some kind of dizzy spell. The action appears alarmingly human to Lena, who’s torn between making a run for her weapons and just plain running. Winston, on the other hand, appears completely enraptured, looking up at the robot with childlike wonder. Lena thinks that he needs to rethink his life’s priorities.

Finally, the robot turns, seeming to notice that it’s alone in the hangar. Its eyes widen, and it crouches down. Lena feels frighteningly small.

“Ahem,” the robot begins. “Three questions. Where am I, who are you people, and do you get Netflix?”

“What,” is Lena’s dumbfounded reply.  

“What?” is Winston’s childlike squeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, well this is not your regularly scheduled programming. Not at all.


	2. Pre-Flight Check

The Vosnian skyline is beautiful, Thundercracker thinks. He should know, he’s soared across it more times than he can count. Ever since he first came into his wings, he’s flown above the city at least once every solar cycle, if not more – sometimes he clings close to the buildings, rattling the windows of the towering academies to startle the doddering professors and excite the students. Other times he keeps a high altitude, free of obstacle, free to fly straight as he takes in the sprawling city below.

Today is one of those solar cycles, and he takes a break from admiring the architecture below to _really_ push his engines. The city disappears behind him in a matter of moments as his speed increases to just below its absolute maximum.

He focuses on little else other than the sheer speed and the energon flow to his afterburners, struggling to pump out that _last_ bit of thrust, to push _just_ beyond his limits.

In front of him, Skywarp suddenly appears, teleporting in at full speed himself. He’s just out of reach, but he isn’t going anywhere. Thundercracker’s no stranger to this challenge, and he’s thankful for it – it focuses him all the more. There’s nothing else save the speed and the strain and the roaring of engines –

The roaring –

_The roaring –_

The roaring of the crowd nearly ruptures Thundercracker’s audio receptors when the gladiator in the gleaming silver armour first appears, down in the sprawling arena deep below him and the rest of the spectators. But it’s more than just screaming – he feels it rising in his chest, in his very _spark_ – the excitement of it all, the thrill - it’s like the skies of Vos and yet not, and that feeling alone is enough to get the normally thoughtful mech on his feet. He doesn’t yell with the rest of them, not with Skywarp who stands beside him, practically shaking with anticipation.

The gladiator’s opponent appears – a lumbering giant in dented black armour with a cape of helicopter blades. The crowd goes up in a mixture of cheers and jeers as the black mech raises his blade towards his silver opponent, a silent threat. And then, without much pomp, the match begins.

Thundercracker’s seen many Kaon pitfights via recording, fights full of gladiators tentatively testing each other with swipes and jabs until one of them finally snaps, and either ends up impaling their opponent or themselves. But the silver gladiator – when the match begins, he wastes no time. He closes the distance between him and his opponent in the space between moments.

The silver gladiator wastes no movement – every thrust and swipe of his sword draws energon, and with every splash of vivid blue on the arena floor, Thundercracker feels a surge of something like excited vindication, and the crowd cheers around him. Some cuts are more shallow than others, but his blade never misses his mark.

The black mech struggles to keep up with his more agile opponent, swinging his weapon wildly. But the silver gladiator is two, three, four steps ahead of him, ducking under wide swipes and slicing along his opponent’s arms. Before long, the black mech’s blade clatters to the dusty ground of the arena, his arms torn to useless shreds. Thundercracker feels the crowd tense along with him – the killing blow will be soon.

The black mech howls in a mixture of fury and pain, and throws himself forward into a desperate charge. Thundercracker’s eyes go to the silver mech – will he dodge? Use the opponent’s momentum against him?

The silver mech does neither. He charges towards his wounded opponent with equal vigour, and roars as he lunges, slamming his shoulder into the black mech’s chest and driving his blade into the mech’s abdomen.

The crowd explodes in adulation as the black mech topples back, half-dead and bleeding energon from two dozen different wounds. The silver mech doesn’t delay – he stalks over to his fallen opponent, and without hesitation, rips the blade out of his opponent’s abdomen before violently plunging it into the chest, right through the spark chamber.

As the light leaves his opponent’s eyes, the silver gladiator plants one foot atop the corpse’s chest, and raises his blade to the sky, letting out a roar of triumph. Like a ripple through an ocean, the crowd begin to chant the gladiator’s name, and this time, Thundercracker bellows with them.

_“Megatron! Megatron! Megatron!”_

_“Megatron!”_

_“Mega –“_

“Megatron’s orders. Don’t think. Just do it,” Skywarp’s voice comes, as the two of them streak across the Kaon skyline in tetrajet mode. A few hundred meters ahead of them, a luxury cruise ship carrying a clutch of Iacon’s aristocracy drifts lazily through the sky. Thundercracker’s newly installed weapon systems feel like a damning mark, even more so than the Deceptibrand painted on his wings. Part of him is waiting to be shot out of the sky by the security forces, even though they have no way of knowing the two following the cruise ship are anything but mechs out for a late-cycle flight.

He’s had a confirmed weapons lock on the ship for several seconds now, and Thundercracker knows Skywarp, waiting for him to fire the first shot, is questioning the delay.

Thundercracker _knows_ that the mechs and femmes aboard that cruise ship have done nothing but leech off of the hard work of millions of Cybertronians. He _knows_ that their wealth is soaked in the energon of those killed by the caste system, killed in mine cave-ins or torn apart in horrifying production-plant accidents. He _knows_ that their death will be the first strike in a campaign that will shatter that caste system, and emancipate millions from a life of struggle and failure.

Thundercracker _knows_ all this, and yet it is only now that he realises he will actually have to wilfully take lives. He can feel Skywarp’s glare even while transformed. He can see the other mech’s weapons arming, and realises that even if he doesn’t fire, Skywarp certainly will – and will certainly report back to Megatron.

Megatron - the name still draws awe and admiration out of Thundercracker, but now there’s something else that feels alarmingly like fear. Not fear of reprimand or reprisal, but fear of disappointing such a glorious, accomplished mech. Fear of disappointing the burgeoning Decepticon movement.

Megatron needed every single one of his men to show absolute dedication, to move and act as one. Otherwise the revolution would surely fail - and Thundercracker would sooner spend eternity in the pit than destroy that one bright light of hope for so many downtrodden Cybertronians.

He fires, and the two missiles streak towards their target.

Their target.

_Target –_

“Target sighted. It’s a flyer – could be the Autobot that’s been harassing the supply convoys these past few cycles,” Thundercracker rumbles, streaking across the ruined Iacon skyline. In the distance, the sounds of battle echo. Below him, deep in the skeletal remains of the once great city, a lone flyer weaves through buildings and below collapsed speedways, their paint scratched and armour chipped.

“Then by all means, Thundercracker,” Starscream’s voice screeches across the commline, “shoot him down!”

“Understood,” Thundercracker grunts, and drops his altitude. By now, the flyer’s seen him, and increased their own speed – but it’s no use. Thundercracker’s a Vosnian, and outclasses them not only in speed but in grace as well. The other flyer is clumsy, scraping their wings against outcroppings and ruins as they struggles to shake the tetrajet on his tail.

The flyer’s moving too erratically to get a good missile lock, so Thundercracker enables his cannons, reconfiguring his mounted weapons and feeding new ammo into them.

As the flyer drifts back into his sights, Thundercracker opens fire, the machine guns on his wings roaring, firing violet tracer rounds and peppering the flyer relentlessly. The flyer lurches downward for a brief moment, and then tries to evade, shifting left to right erratically. It’s clear that this mech isn’t used to combat flying.

Thundercracker leads his target to the right – and as expected, the flyer veers right into his sights again. He fires, and scores several direct hits on the wings and the central thruster, watching as the engine dies and the flyer begins to descend rapidly, smoke and energon trailing from their damaged areas.

Thundercracker follows the flyer as they drops altitude, scoring several more hits on them as he does. The flyer’s wing clips the side of a building, and the previously erratic descent becomes an uncontrollable spin. They spiral down through the air, until they crash into the ruins of a train station, shedding armour and internals in an explosive skid across the platform. Finally, they come to rest next to a burnt-out train carriage, a trail of destruction left behind.

Coming in low to a hover above the crash site, Thundercracker transformers, letting the thrusters in his feet and back gently lower him down into the station. He narrows his optics as he moves through the wreckage, his arm-mounted cannons humming. He slowly advances towards the downed flyer, raising his cannons.

Slowly, painfully, the damaged flyer transforms, ruined internals grinding, sparking and spitting out fragments of metal. Before they can move, Thundercracker quickly moves forward, pressing a foot on their back and forcing them onto the ground.

Very slowly, Thundercracker turns over the flyer with his foot, a cannon trained on their head. When he gets a good look at them, he tenses.

 _A neutral_ , he realises. There’s no Autobrand, no enemy markings, and his scanners pick up no weapons systems whatsoever.

Beneath him, the damaged femme spits energon, glaring balefully up at him with flickering yellow optics. Her left arm is completely shredded, a mess of torn internals and warped armour, and her legs are barely there, ripped apart by the stress of transformation.

“Report, Thundercracker!” Starscream’s voice comes through the commlink, impatient and grating.

“It’s…just a neutral. Didn’t think there were any left in the capital,” he replies, his voice tinged with the uncomfortable realisation of having fired on a defenceless civilian.

Starscream makes an inarticulate, frustrated noise, before speaking again. “Dispose of them. And head back to base. I can’t have you wasting any more time.”

“ _Kill_ her? But she’s just a –“

“She could be feeding intelligence to the resistance for all we know. And I won’t allow the possibility that one of my troops let a spy live. Do it, or I’ll get a member of the DJD to look you over,” Starscream threatens, immediately cutting communications afterward.

The threat has Thundercracker’s cannons burning brighter, if only out of sudden, irrational fear. Beneath him, the damaged femme is staring, searching his features. He stares back down at her, eyes narrowing as he struggles to make the only decision he can make sense in his head.

_She’s bleeding energon fast. And with the damage to her chassis, she’s going nowhere. There’s no reason to prolong her agony. I’m doing her a favour, I –_

“You gonna do something, or are you just gonna stand there and think?” The femme spits, optics dimming slightly. Her voice shakes Thundercracker out of his reverie, and he swallows, steadying the arm he didn’t realise was shaking until now. He steadies himself, tries to remember why he’s doing this, what the emblem on his wings _means_.

_To affect change, you can’t be afraid to get your hands dirty._

He presses his cannon against the dying femme’s head.

His cannon against –

_Cannon against –_

The cannon against his head shakes, but not with fear or trepidation – but rather with bewildered, uncontrollable anger. Skywarp’s expression is a mask of rage, his optics burning furiously bright.

“Look,” Thundercracker tries, “that wasn’t right. I had to do something.” Skywarp’s expression twists, and he shakes his head slightly, refusing to even comprehend Thundercracker’s words.

“Every race we’ve fought, we’ve at least given them the benefit of a _fight_ ,” Thundercracker breathes, as he feels the cannon heat up against his head. “We can’t just _wipe out_ the humans like that, we owe them that much –“

Skywarp cuts him off, and in that instant, Thundercracker sees it in his eyes.

His best friend is going to shoot him.

“ _Betrayer,”_ Skywarp curses, and fires.

_“Betrayer –“_

_“Betray –“_

_“You betrayed me, Kyle!”_ The human female on the screen wails, melodramatic as her male partner steps back in shock.

Thundercracker curls in on himself, his damaged chassis aching with the strain of movement, and holds the screen closer to his face. Huddled inside the skeleton of a gutted human building, hidden from the outside world by debris and wreckage, he tries to occupy himself whilst his auto-repair systems can do the necessary work.

He’s been struggling to distract himself for several cycles, but once he was able to supply power to this television the humans had left behind, he’s found himself engrossed. He knows he should be saving every scrap of power for the auto-repair systems, instead of keeping the device on – but he just can’t stop working.

The television provides a more intimate look at humanity than he’s ever been able to glean from scans of their internet or military chatter. For a world so limited in its influence and size, it’s constantly changing. Constantly _transforming._ And there’s _so much_. Thundercracker’s watched news programs, documentaries, non-fiction, fiction – and these ‘soap operas’ are _particularly_ engrossing, he finds.

“Kyle, you traitorous fool,” he murmurs, watching as the humans continue to shout at each other.

The humans continue to shout –

_The humans continue –_

The humans continue to keep him out of the loop, even now. He’s grateful to them, to Marissa especially for all that she’s done for him, for going out of her way to make this happen and keep him comfortable, but he _knows_ something’s up.

It’s not in the news, it’s not on the internet, but Thundercracker’s been able to pick out the tiniest specks of information. Omnic this and Omnic that.

_Maybe it’s a matter of mechanical rights? Maybe they don’t want to get me involved for fear of a conflict of interest._

He hasn’t been particularly interested in the development of humanity’s new mechanicals as much as everyone else has – it’s a little portion of a much bigger picture that he’s taking his time to appreciate. And he has all the time in the world to appreciate it these cycles, it seems. These days, he’ll only occasionally fly a mission for the EDC, and then be left to his devices for the most part. He’s spent days cruising aimlessly, flying for the sake of flying.

In that sense, Earth feels a little more like Vos every day, and Thundercracker feels a little more peaceful.

Tonight, however, he decides to take it easy. Walking into the hangar and transforming in case he needs to go anywhere on a moment’s notice, he tunes out the outside world and runs the built-in media streamer the EDC went out of their way to develop for him. His central processor focuses on little else than the latest on his list of bingewatches.

Five episodes in, the video begins to distort – Thundercracker thinks there must be something wrong with the service itself, because his connection is second to none. The glitches in the file disappear for a moment – before everything shuts down.

And Thundercracker shuts down with it.

* * *

Like a dam bursting, the memories come unbidden, simultaneous and partially incomprehensible. Thundercracker stumbles about on unfamiliar ground, in an unfamiliar hangar – his chronometer’s a mess, and his uplink’s refusing to connect. His transformation cog aches – like it hasn’t been used in years. He mutters something to that effect, and flares his wings, trying to stretch.

His processor’s a mess – with the mix of pain and the memory dump, he’s feeling a little emotionally scattered. He needs something to steady his world, to ground himself. He supposes that if Marissa were here, she’s say something about needing a drink. However, it’s years since Thundercracker’s been able to get even a sip of high-grade energon, so he supposes television will need to do. His connection’s still on the fritz – he’ll need to find somewhere to manually connect.

It’s then that he realises he’s not alone in the room – his sensors detect two organic signatures, and he makes sure not to accidentally crush them as he moves closer on unsteady legs. Crouching down, he squints – his vision is still slightly fuzzy.

“Ahem,” he starts, his voice still a little rough, “Three questions. Where am I, who are you people, and do you get Netflix?”

“What,” the female mutters, seeming somewhat uncomprehending.

“What?” the strange-looking male squeals, like a hyperactive sparkling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still figuring out how I'm gonna do this, so please leave feedback Also, any IDW fans, please be gentle - I have a very shaky grasp of the comics lore, and I have yet to read anything substantial from that universe.


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